Dreaming in the Rain
by Occasional
Summary: All she can do is to dream of what could have been in the rain. Because what can you do when you lose all that you live for? [ShikaIno]. Sad, dark oneshot. Alternative ending to THIRD ONE'S THE CHARM.


Author's note: Ah It's been a long while since I wrote anything and I've to apologize for this piece of crap. I was feeling down and decided to write a dark fic. Hope you guys like it. This can be seen as an alternative ending to **Third One's the Charm**, if anyone's interested. :)

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. :(

* * *

When all you live for is one man, 

What will you do when he's gone?

* * *

Rain. 

It seemed to fall more than ever.

Dark swirls of black clouded the sky above Konoha. Summer's warmth all but swallowed by the chill of fall's soon arrival. Lightning flashed in the horizon, the blue and purple streaks coloring the black expanse. The trees drooped as their heavy laden branches sagged even more with the weight of the water that fell from the heavens. Flower petals strewn all over the beaten, well-trodden path, bare stems bending under the merciless blowing of the wind. Pink, yellow, red – myriad of shades floating in puddles of brown. Stained and tarnished but yet tragically beautiful.

And the young woman walking down the path wondered if any of the fading colours belonged to her flowers.

Or rather, his.

Some people say that at the end of a dark and rocky path, there is always a light.

But all she saw was more darkness.

All she saw was the white, carved stone.

It was strange. The only evidence of human existence in a place blessed immensely by nature's touch and unblemished by men. It seemed out of place, as if it didn't belong there. Pristine white in a mass of green, darkness in the midst of cool light. It's smooth surface marked with symbols that meant nothing to the animals that lived in the forest around. Yet it held so much meaning for the people and represented the fleeting lives that may made some difference to deserve their names emblazoned in eternity. Or for however long people would remember that the stone stood there.

But as the young woman trudged slowly, agonisingly towards the all-too familiar monument, she felt that it did belong there. Belonged in that place that was far removed from the bustling life of the village, the ever-moving flow of human activity. Far removed from the thoughts of the villagers. For they didn't need to be reminded of those who have been lost, to be reminded of the ache in the hollow of your chest that comes whenever you remember. For this was a testament to the end of the life, the end of living and the simply the end of being.

And for her, the end of his life, the end of his living and simply the end of him being.

But she couldn't forget. She didn't want to. And if others wanted to let go and move on, then let them. But she could not. She would not.

Maybe, she thought, once upon a time someone in his wisdom made for the stone to be placed here, faraway from the village in the hopes that it would help one forget the pain of losing one dear to your heart. Perhaps, that person had thought, 'this will ease the passing of time and the forgetting of grief'. And perhaps that person had hoped that, in time we would learn to leave behind the pain and to move forward but we would not forget the past either.

Such fanciful thinking that it almost made her feel bitter.

Grief doesn't disappear like the morning dew at first light.

It doesn't fade like the rose petals bleached by the sun in midsummer.

It stays.

It sticks.

It's like a parasite that attaches itself to your soul and it steals away your happiness neither to sustain itself nor because it seeks to destroy you. It does because it just does. And the things in the world that hurt you most are those that exist without reason.

The walk towards the monument pains her. Each step she takes, each tiny footstep she places in the soft, wet ground takes away a little of her heart each time. And she feels like a part of her dies every time she places the flowers at the base of the stone. It's as if she's surrendering her very soul, the lost memories and the dreams of what cannot happen in all eternity. And she knows it's because each steps she takes stamps it in her heart that she can never let go, that she will take this grief to the grave.

She doesn't cry. The rain pours down her pale cheeks, dripping off her lashes and she swipes at her eyes with one hand. But there are no tears. She can't explain it but there are just no tears. Perhaps it's because she knows that it's useless, death wins in the end. Or perhaps it's because he always told her not to cry for him, because he cannot bear the sight of her shedding tears for him. It's too troublesome to handle women when they're weepy after all, he would say.

She wonders why she won't cry.

She's grieved beyond what she cannot bear, and the pain is like a knife twisting in the very core of her being. Living is like a blur now. A numbing sensation that follows her as she walks to the flower store because she knows he won't stop by during lunch. It goes with her as she walks to his parents' because she knows they are clearing out his belongings. It comes when she goes to the hospital because she knows there's a room where his blood still stains the floor and it won't come out despite what the medical interns do. She wonders why she won't cry.

And she wishes she could.

But still she dreams.

She sits on the muddy ground; leans against the stone, feeling the chill of the stone caress her smooth skin. And she thinks it's so different from the warmth that his skin seems to bring yet it's ironic she knows, because it's the closest thing she will ever get to feeling him again. She barely notices the cold water seeping through her clothes, flowing down her spine, plastering her white-blonde locks to her back and on the rock.

The gods must be playing a trick on her. She will never see it but strands of white gold filled the crevices that is the mark of his name.

What a sight from heaven she must make.

A broken porcelain doll laid against a broken pedestal.

Pure white against tainted marble.

The stone has come to symbolize broken dreams.

But still she dreams.

Just a little place to call her own. Their own. A small home in the outskirts of the village surrounded by lush green fields in which elegant, beautiful deers of all types frolic. A bedroom with a four-post bed and rooms decorated with flowers she would grow in a garden penned with white picket fences. A world of quiet and tranquillity apart from the other life they lead - the one that is filled with the stench of blood and where you live today not knowing if you will live tomorrow. It doesn't make life seem more precious. It makes you afraid you won't see each other again. This place was a refuge; it was a place they could escape into each other's arms. A place that will never exist.

But still she dreams.

Nights of careless abandonment where all that existed in this plane of reality was just him and her and their bodies. Nights of heated brushes of skin on skin, the touch of warm sweat on warm sweat, the tangle of fingers in soft locks and the melding of two souls. Nights of gentle nudges escalating into wild, passionate thrusts. And then explosions of rapture washing over every pore, every muscle, every limb. Followed by nights of whispering sweet words and of lying in each other's embrace dreaming of endless nothings and fleeting everythings. Nights that will never exist.

But still she dreams.

Sounds of little feet echoing in the small halls of their home and boisterous laughter that will have no end. Ruddy cheeks and cherubic faces, gap-toothed smiles and childish babble. Toys and small socks strewn across the room. Skinned knees and purple bruises she tended to as he taught them how to brandish tools of his trade and soon, theirs. Tired, weary bodies she cradled and soothed as he taught them how to bend their shadows to their wills. Little versions of herself and him - their children. Children that will never exist.

But still she dreams.

Sitting on the porch watching him go round after round with their former master on a game in which the pieces don't seem to move where she can understand. Seeing him come home, red-faced and a tad unsteady on his feet, after a night of indulging in sake and dango with old friends. Reminiscing of old times and maybe laughing about the times they narrowly escaped death or how they were saved by pure luck. Of watching their offspring grow and finding solace in each other's weathered arms as they watch the spreading of young wings and their eventual flight. Experiences and memories that will never exist.

But still she dreams.

Still she sits by the monument and dreams.

For that is all she can do. And all that she can satisfy herself with.

Dreaming in the rain.

* * *

Endnote: I read about this woman who lost her fiance two weeks before their wedding because he died in duty - he was a policeman. This is dedicated to the both of them. May you guys see each other in heaven. Please tell me how you found the story, all encouragement and criticism welcomed.

P.S. Hope you guys know who the couple in this story is. :P


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